od carver again?"

"It's odd you should ask that, for my wife only told me this morning she's
had a letter from him. We didn't expect him for six weeks yet, but it
seems he'll be here next Wednesday. Something must have happened."

"Next Wednesday," reflected Coquenil. "He always comes when he says he
will?"

"Always. He's as regular as clockwork."

"And he spends two nights with you?"

"Yes."

"That will be Wednesday night and Thursday night of next week?"

"Yes."

"Good! Now I'll show you how you're going to make this money. I want
Francois to have a little vacation; he looks tired. I want him to go into
the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday."

"And his work? Who will do his work?"

Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast.

"You?"

"I will take Francois's place. I'll be the best assistant you ever had and
I shall enjoy Mother Bonneton's cooking."

"You will take your meals with us?" cried the sacristan aghast. "But they
all know you."

"None of them will know me; you won't know me yourself."

"Ah, I see," nodded the old man wisely. "You will have a disguise. But my
wife has sharp eyes."

"If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I'll give you a thousand
francs instead of five hundred. Now, here is the money for Francois"--he
handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note--"and here are five hundred
francs for you. I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work. When do you want
me?"

"At six o'clock," answered the sacristan doubtfully. "But what shall I say
if anyone asks me about it?"

"Say Francois was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him
for a few days. I'm Matthieu!"

Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean
blue and white attracted him irresistibly.

"You wouldn't get me into trouble, M. Paul?" he appealed weakly.

"Papa Bonneton," answered Coquenil earnestly, "have I ever shown you
anything but friendship? When old Max died and you asked me to lend you
Caesar I did it, didn't I? And you know what Caesar is to me. I _love_ that
dog, if anything happened to him--well, I don't like to think of it, but I
let you have him, didn't I? That proves my trust; now I want yours. I can't
explain my reasons; it isn't necessary, but I tell you that what I'm asking
cannot do you the least harm, and may do me the greatest good. There, it's
up to you."

M. Paul held out his hand frankly and the sacristan took it, with emotion.

"That sett